


Rag and Bones, Sympathy

by joosetta



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joosetta/pseuds/joosetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <a href="http://joosetta.livejournal.com/530838.html">Uncertainty</a>, Arthur and Eames hole up, and some licking of wounds is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rag and Bones, Sympathy

Arthur went round to Ariadne's apartment first, he felt like he should. Arthur wasn't used to feeling like he should do anything- especially say goodbye, but he found Ariadne cleaning up a smashed mug- coffee all over the lino in her tiny kitchen.

“Tremors,” she said grimly, and Arthur understood- he had them too; tremors, and headaches and other unspecified side-effects that Yusuf had mumbled over. 

“We're going to have to go,” Arthur said, not specifying. 

“Yeah, yeah, I figured,” she pushed her hair behind one ear and smiled, rather more weakly than she usually did. “Okay so at least check in in a few weeks and let me know how it goes.”

“Okay,” Arthur said, although he had no intention of actually doing it. Ariadne saw through him, and smiled kind of awkwardly. 

“Keep safe Arthur,” she said softly, as he left.

\--

They flew to Italy, and Eames spent the whole fucking trip from start to finish complaining. Complaining because Arthur got him a wheelchair at Charles de Gaulle, complaining because Arthur wouldn't let him drink on the flight, complaining because the inflight movie was some hollywood remake of a quote “seminal british surrealist comedy”. He made sour faces whenever someone offered him water or blankets or an extra pillow- despite the fact that he looked like he was undergoing chemo or something; gaunt and pale with great big bags under his eyes and a shake that he couldn't quite hide.

“You could have just put me on a eurostar, I have places to hole up in London, you know,” he said as he looked gloomily down at Malpensa. It was a glorious, balmy evening in Milan and Eames was shivering like it was cold. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said blandly, “no fucking chance.”

Eames complained as he struggled to get into the hire car and complained at Italian drivers, and eventually he seemed to have exhausted himself because by the time Arthur hit the scenic roads up to the lake, he had passed out, head turned to the side on the car seat so Arthur couldn't see his face.

By the time they got to the villa it was dark and Arthur didn't want to wake Eames up, so he let him sleep on and smoked a cigarette down by the little boathouse, looking out at the water. They were miles and miles from anywhere or anyone- it felt brilliant after the enclosed spaces of Paris, the entangling nets of unstable dreams.

“Isn't this lovely,” Eames said, levering himself out of the car. “Your place?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows and Eames smiled.

“Of course not, silly me.”

\--

 

“You know I'm confused,” Eames called from the lounge, as Arthur knocked the hot water on and went to check the kitchen. Arthur ignored him, because Eames didn't know how to start a conversation without leading, and Arthur didn't like to be led. Eames waited until he was back in the lounge before he continued.

“You do realise,” Eames went on, “fucking me a few times doesn't mean you have to act as my nursemaid.”

“Hm,” Arthur moved the suitcase containing the PASIV to the villa safe and set about changing the combination. It wouldn't do to have it stolen. He heard Eames sigh.

“You aren't rising to any bait at all this evening, are you?”

Arthur slammed the safe door shut with a click and turned back. Eames was slumped on the sofa, knees drawn up so he could tuck his feet beneath his blanket. He looked ill- days on, he still almost looked like he was close to death. It was horrible- Arthur had been sure, certain, in that hospital, that it would all be okay. Now it seemed like- even resolved, the events in the dreamworld were still dragging on behind them like unwanted baggage.

“So I look that bad?” Eames rubbed his face. “You're feeling sorry for me?”

“Yes,” Arthur smiled and took the armchair opposite, “I'm feeling really sorry for you. You look like a smack addict. Also Ariadne saw you in school uniform.”

Eames made a face, “At least my face doesn't look like tenderised meat.”

They fell silent, and Arthur realised that he'd brought Eames to this place- this retreat of his, without any sort of idea what they would do. Without even thinking really, of the consequences, which were that Eames was sitting on the sofa there looking nothing like Eames at all, and making Arthur feel like he'd been punched in the gut.

“I hate this,” Eames said finally, “I wish you hadn't. It's fucking embarrassing.”

“Well,” Arthur got up and very deliberately, tugged the blanket over Eames' legs high enough to cover his shaky hands. “Suck it up.”

\--

 

The first day, Eames literally slept until about five pm, and when he got up he was unreasonably hungry. Arthur had driven all the way around the lake to the nearest village and got food, so he cooked- something he had only rudimentary skills in, mostly chopping stuff, frying stuff and putting that stuff on a carbohydrate base (in this case pasta, although Arthur had been known to branch out into such things as bread, and once- memorably, mashed potato).

“This is good,” Eames said, which Arthur decided to take as a compliment. He did know, however, that Eames was capable of eating almost anything, so it wasn't really that indicative of Arthur's skill in the kitchen. “You know I lost about a stone while I was under?”

“What's a stone?” Arthur murmured, peering at his newspaper. Nothing about William Harris- although his death had made a bit of a splash across the EU. 

“You know what a stone is,” Eames shovelled another mouthful of tomato-garlic-ham-thingy-pasta into his mouth.

“I do,” Arthur put the paper away. Eames really needed to shave, they both did, but it didn't actually seem important. The sun was still high in the sky- glittering on the lake and gilding everything. “I just wanted to check if you did.”

“It's some pounds,” Eames considered it. “Twelve pounds?”

“Nope.”

“Yeah well fuck that. Is there more of this?”

\--

The second day, Eames was better. At least enough to go for a walk, because when Arthur woke up, the guest room was empty, and half an hour of slightly frantic searching found him down by the lake, staring at the opposite shore- distant buildings shrouded in early morning mist.

“Oh god, it's you again,” Eames said, “I really can't get rid of you can I?”

Arthur sat down next to him, not too close. “I get that you're pissed off-” Arthur began.

“No dear, you don't. You don't get it at all. I am quite simply, fed up of your company. You've been tramping around in my dreams for what amounts to weeks, and I am sick of you, so could you please, please just fuck off,” Eames kept his eyes on the lake as he spoke, and Arthur recognised the tight clench of his jaw. He meant it.

“Right,” Arthur said, and he got up and left.

\--

Arthur went into the village again, but this time he spent the day, first just with coffee and newspapers, then with food, and increasingly, with wine, and a sympathetic ristorante patron, who was happy to let Arthur drink himself into a stupor.

Nobody stopped him when he got into the car, so he drove the twisty road back to the villa at a speed only someone very drunk and very frightened of crashing would take. By that time it was past one AM, and the sky was like an endless canvas painted velvet blue, so rich that the stars just looked like a trick of Arthur's drunk eyes.

He got in, and Eames was passed out on the sofa, with a wrinkled paperback at his elbow. He woke up, probably because Arthur accidentally dropped his keys on the tiled floor, shushing them hopelessly.

“Oh god,” Eames said, “You're pissed.”

“Wait-” Arthur said, then snorted, “Yes, yeah I am pissed.”

“Is this because I said I was sick of you?” Eames got straight to the point, but Arthur wasn't really paying attention- he couldn't get his jacket off. Eames helped. He helped strip Arthur down to his t-shirt and boxers, and while he did, Arthur thought about how he had been poisoned, and how terrible it would have been if he had died.

“Christ Arthur, don't cry,” Eames said strangely, helping him stumble into the bedroom. “Fucking hell, it's all right- I'm not going anywhere, even if I am fed up of your stupid fucking face.”

Arthur wanted to tell him that it wasn't that- it was just that he might have died and ended up gone forever, but what came out was, “But I can't get sick of you.”

“I beg to differ,” Eames said, but his voice was sweet with a kind of understanding, and Arthur fell asleep after that.

\--

Day three was hangover day. Arthur woke up at noon to find that Eames had been into town and was cooking something far more ambitious and far more delicious smelling than Arthur's previous offering. It was a shame that Arthur wasn't in a state to appreciate it.

“You're far too old to be living it large like this,” Eames called through the bathroom door, while Arthur tried to puke quietly.

Still, when he made it out, Eames had done a soupy vegetable stew with beans and strips of salty cured ham, and he made Arthur drink a few pints of water, and after that he felt okay. Eames genuinely looked a lot better, all his colour back, and a much easier smile. Arthur knew Eames was better when Arthur wasn't able to work out if his smile was fake or not. When he was ill or upset, Eames was worse at deception. 

It shouldn't have reassured Arthur so much that Eames was able to lie convincingly to him again, but it did.

“So, I didn't really notice it these last few days, what with feeling very sorry for myself, but this is a really beautiful place,” Eames was drinking the wine- Arthur was abstaining. “Way too beautiful to be yours.”

“I can have beautiful things too,” Arthur said, half-heartedly. “But no, it belongs to a friend of mine.”

“A friend,” Eames said, around a smile- the words all drawn out and meaningful.

“Rich- Eames, please,” Arthur said, irritated. Eames' lips twitched- he went back to his wine. He still hadn't shaved- they both had what amounted to real beards, and Arthur rubbed his face and felt weary. Leaving was still an option- Eames would probably thank him for it, but still. Arthur felt as if there was still something to say.

\--

That night, Arthur woke up to the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside his bedroom. Careful footsteps- quiet on the tile but audible anyway. Someone lifted the latch on the door- Arthur slid a hand to the back of the bedside unit- a gun was taped there, he had it out and primed by the time Eames slid the door open.

“Wow, okay, I know when I'm not wanted,” Eames said, holding his hands up, like it was a stick up or something. Arthur put the gun away, annoyed.

“What are you doing?” Arthur scrubbed his eyes and checked the clock- two am.

“No darling, what are you doing?” Eames walked over to the bed, then crawled up onto it, crawled until he was kneeling over Arthur. “Come on, tell me. Why are we doing it like this?”

“I-” Arthur began, then Eames started peeling the sheets off him, sliding in next to him, a warm, heavy bulk on the mattress. “I don't know,” he managed eventually.

“Okay then, well I have decided I am now running the show, you aren't allowed to make any decisions. All right?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said, and listened to Eames fall asleep.

\--

So on day four, they fucked. At first, Arthur was afraid that Eames was fragile, that he might break if Arthur pushed too hard. That quickly went out the fucking window, and they spent most of the day in bed, until Arthur was pushing his too-hot face against cool sheets, gasping and shaking and biting back all the crazy things he wanted to say, like: _don't leave, don't leave me, I love you, stay here and do this to me forever._

Eames, for his part was uncharacteristically silent, like all his usual chatter during sex might not be completely honest, and for once, he didn't want to lie.

They staggered out, eventually, shaky-legged onto the patio and ate bread and cold meat and enjoyed the sunset, light draining away from the sky.

“You know what,” Eames said eventually. “At first I was angry at you, and Ariadne as well, of course. Because, Jesus, you saw so much about my past that I didn't-” he hesitated and Arthur drew his knees up. He wasn't too worried, because Eames didn't sound angry any more.

“But actually the more I think about it- all that shit, if you'd asked me about it I would have told you. I wasn't holding on to it for any reason, it just felt so weird to have you there, and not to be able to control it.”

“It wasn't fun for me,” Arthur said, which was a huge understatement.

“I understand that,” Eames shrugged, then laughed. “I mean, I think I just wanted to keep a distance between us. You're-”

He couldn't seem to find the right word, and stared at Arthur for a long time. Arthur couldn't imagine what he looked like; four days of scruffy, grown-in beard, hair a mess, just in his shorts and nothing else. Everywhere he was marked, red and purple where Eames had dug his fingers in, bared his teeth.

“God Arthur,” Eames's voice seemed to shake a bit. “You're brilliant, I don't know how I'd cope if I got too used to- doing this.”

That surprised Arthur. He opened his mouth, but Eames shook his head, looking darker. He didn't want to hear what Arthur had to say, because he thought it would be a lie. Arthur couldn't guarantee either, that it wouldn't be.

So, they went back to bed, and fucked again- slow, slow, way too slow. Outside, it was raining, a late summer storm, and the sound of it on the tiles was an unending, soothing hiss.

\--

Day five- Arthur woke up and Eames was gone. He left a note, unremarkable really; _Thanks, feel much better now- see you soon R.E._ \- except for the fact that it was in the empty safe where the PASIV had been. Arthur supposed Eames had wanted to piss him off, so that next time they met Arthur could focus on the theft and nothing else.

Still. He looked at the total mess they had made of the place- bedcovers torn off and scattered everywhere, the remnants of Eames' cooking in the kitchen; and he rubbed his mouth, tried to hide the fact that he really wanted to smile.

\--

Eames didn't actually recover enough to work for about 6 months. Arthur decided not to keep tabs on him- Arthur genuinely had no idea Eames was working again until he walked into the dining car, carrying a suitcase and wearing a grin. The suitcase turned out to contain Arthur's PASIV, and Eames turned out to be Mr. Roberts, their forger. Arthur just raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry I'm late,” Eames said, sliding the suitcase under the table and dropping into the seat opposite Arthur. “Ran into a little security hiccup.”

“How are you?” Arthur said, politely.

“All the better,” Eames answered, genuinely, “for seeing your beautiful face.”

He did look better- completely recovered in fact. He had put the lost weight back on, clean shaven and well-groomed and full of life and movement. As they sat, he folded his napkin into a fan, turned the cutlery over and over in deft fingertips, peered out at the rush of mountainous landscape beyond the window.

“Erdos has already briefed me,” Eames continued, “But I'd like to hear what you think as well, if you don't mind.”

“That's fine,” Arthur checked his watch, they had about an hour before they arrived. “Do you have a room?”

Eames blinked, thrown. “What?”

“A room at the hotel.”

“Not yet,” he scratched behind one ear, smiling. 

“Good,” was all Arthur could say. From the way Eames smiled, it was more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Uncertainty](http://joosetta.livejournal.com/530838.html)(written for Inception big bang 2010). That fic was mostly gen, with hinted A/E.
> 
> This was a planned A/E follow up that I have only just now dusted off and edited. Uncertainty itself will go up on AOE soon.
> 
> Unbetaed, back to the old habit of using misc song lyrics in lieu of titles.


End file.
